


Wolves' Hangover

by KitsuneBlake



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (almost) everybody is drunk, Adventures, Drunk Witchers, Gen, Hangover, drunk Eskel, drunk Geralt, drunk Lambert, this thing is very stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9254762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsuneBlake/pseuds/KitsuneBlake
Summary: What's worse than a drunk witcher? Two drunk witchers. But you know...trouble comes in threes.Warning: This story contains elements from the books and the game, and takes place before "Blood of Elves".





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am with a new (stupid) story! This time in a new fandom. I really hope you'll like it, and please let me know if you find any grammar error. Your help and support is much appreciated, and helps me to improve every day. Thanks!

 

_“The three of us get together, always ends like this…”  
_

_(Eskel, The Witcher III: Wild Hunt)_

 

 

 

“Geralt…"

“Hm…?”

“Geralt!”

“…Coën? What are you doing here?”

“You tell me. I’m not the one sleeping in the woods with his cock out.”

“What?”

“Come on, let’s go. It’s freezing out here, we’ll talk by the fire, drinking a good beer-”

“Do not say _beer_ anymore, or I’ll owe you a new pair of boots.”

“Understood. But I have to bring you back to the keep. Come on, Geralt…”

“My head’s spinning…”

“Being old is not easy, you know…”

“Fuck you, Coën. Where are Lambert and Eskel?”

“They’re going back already. Vesemir’s really pissed off this time, you made him worry for good. What the hell happened, Geralt?”

“I don’t remember, well, not everything. Just the beginning.”

“Very well, tell me what you remember. It will be a small distraction, while we walk back. And it seems to be quite the adventure.”

 

“Where’s Coën?” Geralt asked, sitting at the table.

“A village in the valley needed a witcher,” Eskel replied, scratching the scar on his face, “Coën was in the mood, we were not. So, here we are.”

“Vesemir?”

“He’s cleaning his blade. Again.”

“You also should do it, Lambert,” Vesemir said, approaching. He sure was old, but damn, he was still as silent as a cat. “It is the sword that makes us what we are. If you don’t take care of it, it would be like you didn’t take care of yourself.”

“I take care of my sword. Wait, what sword are we talking about?”

“It’s getting late,” Vesemir said, ignoring him. “I’m going to sleep. And you three, as full-grown and responsible adults, should do the same.”

“Sure, papa Vesemir,” Lambert replied, greeting him with his beer mug.

“As always,” said Eskel.

“Promised,” Geralt added.

Half an hour later, the three full-grown adults had finished the first round of beer, and had started the second. They would have gone for another one: the tradition wanted that every witcher would pour once for his comrades. So, three rounds of beer were the least, in that case.

They weren’t drunk, but Eskel was claiming he had fucked a higher vampire in Vizima.

“That’s a brothel, mate.”

“Lambert's right," Geralt said, "anyone can fuck a vampire in that place, if they pay well."

Eskel pouted. "Well, did you find anything better? Sorceresses don't count."

"Why?" Geralt asked, drily.

"I'm making you a favour. If I fucked them, I'd have more than you in my list."

"I shall believe you once I see this so-called list."

"Enough of this crap," Lambert said, drinking his last sip. "Eskel, it's your turn. Pour, I want to drink."

Geralt didn't say a word, and the third round started. And the three old friends kept talking, about their adventures, about love and war. The beer just finished too quickly.

"Anything else to drink?" Geralt asked. He wanted something strong.

Lambert smiled. "I have something."

He left for a couple of minutes, and came back with a bottle full of a transparent liquid.

“Aged Mahakam spirit!” he announced, excited.

Eskel looked at the liquor, then at Lambert, surprised.

“When did you get it?”

“Some time ago, in Mahakam, as a bonus reward for killing a bunch of harpies.”

Geralt grabbed the bottle to have a closer look.

“If harpies always paid so well, I would go hunt them only.”

“Not so easy,” Lambert said, sitting at the table, “It was just luck. Customer was a dead drunk dwarf, and let me choose my reward. Otherwise he’d never give it up.”

“For fuck’s sake, Geralt,” Eskel said, still staring at the bottle, “less talk, more drink. Pour.”

Lambert moved faster. He took the bottle from Geralt’s hands and stood up.

“Not so fast, my dear friends! This liquor is far too precious to be drunk and wasted in a dirty kitchen. Let’s take my boat. To the lake!”

“Lambert…” Geralt said.

“What? Don’t be the party pooper, for once.”

“No, _I am_ , for once. Do you recall the last time we three drank together?”

“No.”

“Exactly.”

Lambert snorted. “So?”

Eskel, who had been silent, suddenly stood up, raising his hands to shut them up.

“Let’s vote. What’s better than democracy?”

Geralt coldly glanced at him. “Better if you say what _you_ want right away.”

“Let’s go out.”

 

“And then? What happened?” Coën asked, smiling. They were getting closer to the keep.

Geralt waited for the headache to give him some rest, then talked again.

“I’m trying to remember. It’s not easy.”

“I know, I know…”

 

“Cheers!” Lambert said, getting up and making the boat swing, “to you bastards. I can’t stand you, but I love you anyway.”

He took another sip, and gave the liquor to Eskel. The bottle was half-empty.

“Damn. I’ll puke my guts out, I’m sure of it.”

“Eskel, my turn” Geralt said, mumbling. He drank all the spirit left.

“What now?” he said then, looking around.

Lambert looked like he was just waiting for that question.

“Now this.”

He took a box from under the seat. Eskel was curious. Geralt wondered why he’d not noticed that box before. Damn he was getting drunk.

Lambert sure was a bit high. He took a couple of minutes and several curses to open that box. And then, finally, everyone had his own bottle of vodka.

Geralt took a long sip. The liquor burnt his throat and his guts. “What were you saying, Eskel? In the keep. You were talking about a werewolf.”

“Yes, right. So… we were fighting. That bastard was fast. He knocked me down, his huge paws were pressing my chest. I was sure he’d rip my face out-”

Lambert burst out laughing. “Could your face be worse than this?”

“Ha ha, very funny. However, I won. I slashed his throat with my silver knife.”

The silence fell, and the three witchers drank again.

“How many werewolves did you kill?” Eskel asked, after a while.

Lambert snorted. “Who the hell knows? I lost count.”

“Me too,” Geralt said.

“And the strongest monster you fought? You sure remember that.”

“A huge elemental,” Lambert answered, lost in his memories. “I’ve almost broken my sword.”

“A higher vampire,” Geralt said, after a while. “I’ve met many vampires, but that one was the worst I’ve ever found. And for a shitty reward …”

“I beat you both,” Eskel said, suddenly.

Geralt became skeptical. “What do you mean?”

“A giant. That’s what I mean.”

The silence fell once again. Then Lambert laughed. A dry laugh, more like a barking.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Giants don’t exist anymore!”

Geralt agreed. “Lambert’s right. It must have been a cyclops. Maybe it was dark and you didn’t count its eyes.”

“It was dark, but I counted them well,” Eskel replied, offended, “and there were two eyes.”

“Impossible,” Lambert said, “I’m younger than you, but not stupid.”

Eskel got up, making the boat swing again. “It’s true! Give me a giant and I will cut it to pieces right here! Fuckers.”

Lambert jumped up angrily. He had finished his bottle, and was definitely drunk. The boat almost went upside down and so did Geralt’s stomach.

“Impossible! I won’t find any giant for you, because They don’t fucking exist!”

“Sit down, both of you,” Geralt said, glaring at them. “I have no intention of throwing up on this old tub. I don’t care if Eskel has killed a giant or not.”

Then suddenly he had an idea. Damn he was a genius. “I propose a challenge,” he said, while his two friends sat down again, “Let’s go to the north shore. Do you have a band, a lace?”

“I have some twine,” Eskel answered, skeptical.

“A leather lace,” Lambert said.

“Good. Once we get there, we’ll go through the caverns, till we reach Old Speartip’s cavern…”

Eskel interrupted him. “Are you crazy? Are you talking about _that_ Speartip?”

Geralt sighed, annoyed. “Do you know another Speartip? You are the one who claims he killed a giant. Cyclops are smaller and dumber.”

“What’s the matter, Eskel?” Lambert asked, caustic, “shitting yourself? Old traumas?”

“Fuck you.”

Geralt ignored them.

“Once we get there, that old fart will be sleeping, for sure. The first of us that ties his lace to one of Speartip’s fingers, wins.”

Eskel listened carefully and drank his last sip of vodka. “You know what?” he said then, “I’m on it. I’ve already won.”

“Don’t count on it,” Lambert said, taking three more bottles from the chest.

“Come on, let’s drink. We need energy to face the good Old Speartip.”

 

“Energy? Vodka? Really?”

“Shut up, Coën.”

The sun was rising. Geralt had remembered too much already. Three pints of beer and one full bottle of vodka had shut his brain down. And not counting the Mahakam spirit.

They finally reached the keep.

Lambert and Eskel were there, sitting at the table. The guilty table. Both of them were literally wrapped in wool blankets, and both of them seemed to be very confused.

“Where did you wake up?” Geralt asked, sitting on the bench heavily. Too heavily. His headache came back, stronger than ever.

Lambert answered with a grunt. Eskel did not answer at all. Coën was smiling. It seemed he was having fun.

“Eskel was in the trolls’ cauldron, and Lambert…”

“Wait, _what_?”

“Yes, the trolls were saying ‘Troll eat bad witcha’, or something like that.”

Their dialogue was interrupted by Vesemir, who had walked in the room. He was carrying six swords.

 _Their_ swords.

“Those trolls might deserve these swords more than you do.”

“Vesemir…”

“Not a word, Wolf. There’s no need. I think this experience was enough for a lesson. Drink this now.”

He gave them a vial. Geralt opened it and sniffed the content. White Honey. But it had something different.

“I added an ingredient to accelerate the effect and to help your brain work,” Vesemir explained.

There was no reason not to trust him. The three witchers drank the potion at once. Geralt’s stomach tried to flip over, and it was clear that Lambert and Eskel were experiencing the same, beautiful sensation.

Meanwhile, Vesemir had sat at the table too.

“Now that you’re clearing your mind, would you please tell us what happened?”

It was not easy, but the White Honey was helping a lot. Finally, Geralt could remember another bottle of vodka. And all the adventures that came along with it.

Definitely he shouldn’t have remembered.


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am with the second part of this (dumb) story! I would like to thank you for the comments and the kudos in the first chapter. Hope you like this one too! :)

The boat hit the shore with a thud. Too loud.

“Lambert,” Eskel growled, “wreck the boat and we go back swimming.”

Lambert ignored him, and jumped down the boat gracelessly.

“Here we are!” he announced, his voice echoing in the whole valley. Then they heard a strange noise. Someone - or something – was approaching.

“Nicely done, Lambert,” Geralt hissed, drawing his sword. A group of drowners was surrounding them.

Lambert drew his sword too. “Are you pussies or what? We’re witchers, we’ll kill them in a fucking second.”

Eskel attacked first. And stumbled. Good bye to his famous agility.

They took more than a second. Lambert was slashing everything on his way, but managed to kill at least three drowners. Eskel was in the same boat but not so stupid, since he’d chosen to defend himself, instead of attacking randomly. Geralt wasn’t doing good. He couldn’t dilate his pupils properly, and couldn’t see as well as usual in the dark.

They were lucky. Despite some scratches, they were still alive and kicking.

“My vodka,” Lambert said, going back to the boat, “don’t forget it.”

They did not forget it.

Then the journey started. Climbing the first slope was not so hard after all. They stopped just to pee, drink, find the right way and drink again. Finally they reached the first cave.

“Damn,” Geralt whispered, stopping suddenly.

Eskel came close to him. “The trolls.”

“Yes.”

Other than having completely forgotten about the trolls, they also forgot about having to go through _that_ cave to reach Old Speartip.

Lambert approached too, holding his bottle firmly.

“What’s the problem? Trolls are stupid, we’ll find a way to avoid them.”

Then he entered, without waiting for their opinion.

“Didn’t you have a torch on the boat, Lambert?” Geralt asked, after a while.

“Yes. What of it?”

“Did you take it?”

“No. Don’t you think we should avoid torches in a troll cave?”

“Yeah…”

Lambert laughed.

“I understand now. Your viper eyes are good just to seduce women.”

“Shut up.”

But Lambert was right, at the very least on the first point. Geralt didn’t have any choice but to drink a Cat potion. And after three beers and one bottle of vodka, that potion proved to be a real challenge. But his eyes were working again, in some way.

They finally met the trolls. There were two of them, both awake and by their giant cauldron over the fire. Sober witchers couldn’t have avoided them, let alone drunk witchers.

“Tork look. Witcha come our cave,” said the first troll, looking at them.

“Me see, Gurm. Witcha come dinner?”

Lambert raised his hands peacefully, and winked at his companions. Then he stumbled approaching the trolls.

“We just want to reachthe other side of the cave. We won’t touch anything.”

“No,” said the troll named Tork, “Witcha come our home. Witcha go. Not go, trololo cook witcha for dinner.”

Lambert was about to attack them. Geralt was trying to regain his balance and couldn’t do anything, but Eskel was fast enough.

“Let’s play,” he said, approaching the trolls. “If we win, you let us go to the other side.”

The trolls were not convinced. They talked – grunted – in their language for a while, before answering.

“Troll play. Witcha say game?”

Good, Geralt thought, if Eskel chooses a logic or riddles game, they can’t lose, even in their state.

“Let’s play rock-paper-scissors,” Eskel said.

They could just throw themselves in the cauldron. Lambert clearly showed his disappointment.

“What?! Are you crazy, Eskel? You couldn’t choose a dumber game. While you’re at it, try finding out who’s a bigger idiot between you and the trolls!”

Eskel glared at him, offended.

“ _I_ am lucky. We’ll win for sure.”

“Troll game like!” Gurm said, “me want white witcha.”

Geralt sighed. He hated games. But maybe it was finally time to be lucky.

“Rock-paper-scissor!” said the troll, happily.

Or maybe not.

“Me win! Witcha go pot. Gurm hungry!”

“What?!” Lambert said, angrily, “don’t even think about that. Eskel and I have to play too.”

“But us two,” Tork replied, looking at his companion, clearly to be sure that he counted right.

“Your friend will play twice. Now _you_ play with me.”

Gurm didn’t say a word for a while. He was thinking, maybe. Then he finally spoke.

“Trolls agree. But Gurm win, want prize. Want witcha clothes, witcha clothes nice.”

Lambert was going to attack again, but Eskel stopped him.

“Let me talk with my friends. Then we shall play.”

The troll wasn’t convinced, but stayed silent. The three witchers gathered up.

“Eskel, fuck you and your damn idea!” Lambert whispered, furious.

“Come on, Geralt is a magnet for misfortune. He’s so unlucky even a lightning could hit him any moment. He couldn’t win. But for the two of us losing is not an option. Or I am not a witcher.” Eskel was very proud of his words.

Geralt, who had remained silent, decided to share his doubts.

“What if we lose?”

“Talking about misfortune… in that case, we’ll fight,” said Lambert.

“I won’t fight,” Eskel replied, “one more swirl and I’ll puke vodka, liquor, beers, dinner and lunch all together.”

“Me too.”

“Listen,” Eskel said finally, “let’s give‘em our clothes. I don’t want to deal with angry trolls while I’m drunk. We’ll come back to take our stuff once we sober up.”

Geralt was not convinced at all, but there weren’t any other options.

“Fine,” he eventually said, removing his own leather gloves, “Lambert, you too.”

“What the-“

“Not a word,” he warned him, with a menacing glare.

“Damn, I’m going to kill you,” said Lambert, starting to undress, “I’ll kill you both.”

A few minutes later, they gave their clothes to the trolls. Now, they were wearing nothing but their swords and their medallions.

“Nice clothes witcha!” Gurm said, happy.

“Me turn,” Tork said, “who play?”

Lambert approached him. Geralt had to admit his friend had still some dignity, despite being drunk and naked.

“Rock-paper-scissor!”

“I won, you bastards!” Lambert shouted, “give our clothes back now, and let us go.”

“No,” Gurm said, clearly irritated, “troll one win, witcha one win. Us win last, eat witcha. Witcha win, us let go.”

“My turn,” Eskel said, approaching, as proud as he was entering a brothel with his pocket tingling with gold.

Geralt had a really bad feeling.

“Lambert,” he whispered, when the trolls seemed to be distracted. “If Eskel loses we take him and flee. Those two are going to eat us for good.”

He just had finished to talk, when a triumphant roar echoed in the cave.

“Gurm win! Eat well today. Friends come eat witcha with Gurm!”

Geralt and Lambert reacted immediately. It was quite a miracle, considering they had almost finished two bottles of vodka.

They took Eskel and they ran –stumbled- towards the exit. Rocks were flying over their heads and the trolls’ roars were terribly loud. Finally, they managed to reach the forest outside, and stopped in a small clearing, right in front of Old Speartip’s cave.

Eskel, confused for being dragged and shaken till there, had to sit down to avoid throwing up his guts.

“You should’ve told me,” he said, a few minutes later.

“And spoil your _glorious_ victory against the troll?” Lambert replied, sarcastic.

“Why didn’t we do it before?” Geralt asked.

“What?”

“Running away.”

“Don’t know.”

Some minutes passed. Eskel refreshed his mouth with his vodka.

“We should go back,” Geralt said. “We went too far this time.”

“No way,” Said Lambert, “we’ll go to Old Speartip and do the challenge.”

 “I want to do it too,” said Eskel. “Geralt, brother, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Take a sip and let’s go.”

When they finally entered the cave, all of them had finished the second bottle of vodka.

“Wait,” Geralt mumbled, “we should leave our sh-shwords here. Too easy with them.”

Lambert took a while to understand and answer.

“Geralt, my friend… you are a genius.”

They hid their swords in the bushes, just in case the trolls decided to come out of the cave and steal them, and they finally entered.

Eskel stumbled several times, and so did Geralt, who had to drink another Cat potion. Lambert was so stubborn he didn’t care about falling on the ground. He just kept going. However, they were all in the same boat, and when they finally reached the place where Old Speartip was sleeping, they were literally holding each other up.

“Finally,” Geralt said, wheezing, “You got your lace?”

The other two nodded.

“Let’s split. Choose a place where to start. We must be at the shame distance.”

“Shame? What you mean?”

“Sh… I mean, _same_.”

“Just concentrate and speak simply.”

“Just concentrate and don’t puke on your feet, Lambert.”

Old Speartip was close. He was sleeping deeply. Finally they had some luck.

The three witchers surrounded the cyclops: Lambert chose a foot, and Geralt did the same. Eskel chose a hand.

“Tie the lace well,” Eskel said, “try to cheat and I’ll beat you up for good.”

So the challenge began.

But it didn’t last for long.

“G-guys,” said Lambert, suddenly.

“What now?” Eskel whispered, annoyed.

“This foot stinks. I’ve got to puke.”

“What- shit, not now!”

Too late.

Few seconds passed, but they seemed to be an eternity. Eskel tried to reach his friend to avoid a disaster, but he wasn’t fast enough. Lambert leant over and threw up on Old Speartip’s foot. In the meantime, Geralt couldn't do anything but watch the scene, wide-eyed.

Old Speartip woke up and noticed them. He roared and tried to hit Geralt with his bare hand, but the witcher luckily avoided him and fell on the ground. It was hard to get up, and trying to reach his friends proved to be even harder. But he managed to finally help Eskel holding Lambert up.

“Out!” Eskel shouted, suddenly revived despite the alcohol.

Holding their friend, the two witchers ran out as fast as possible. They were lucky, since Old Speartip was still sleepy when he attacked them and was not as strong and fast as usual.

They finally reached the open air and sat down under a tree, to catch their breath. Nobody spoke about the last adventure, about how three full-grown and trained witchers failed facing a sleeping cyclops.

“Got to pee,” grunted Eskel after a while. He got up and walked away. The other two had no intention to follow him.

“Geralt,” Lambert said, suddenly.

“What?”

“I’m freezing.”

“We are naked.”

“I watched you, you know? What do women find so interesting in you?”

“I don’t puke randomly.”

“Ha ha, funny. Anyway, I thought you had a bigger cock.”

Geralt didn’t answer. He was feeling sleepy, so he decided to get up before losing consciousness.

“Wait. Where’s Eskel?” he asked.

“No idea.”

“His pee is taking too long. Eskel!” he called, but he didn’t have much voice left.

No answer came.

Lambert too joined the research, after a while. But they couldn’t find their friend. They followed his track, but it stopped suddenly near the slope.

“Shit,” Lambert said, “Got to find him, or Vesemir will kill us.”

Geralt stopped him, just in time, because Lambert was entering the trolls’ cave.

“Not there.”

“But Eskel-“

“Eskel is drunk, but not stupid. He wouldn’t go there. He fell asleep somewhere.”

But Lambert wasn’t convinced, so Geralt had to find another solution.

“Let’s split,” he said. “I stay here and keep looking for Eskel. You take the boat and go back to the keep, to ask for help.”

Lambert shook his head. “No way. I look for Eskel, you face papa Vesemir.”

“The boat’s yours.”

“I’ll let you use it.”

“I’m older than you.”

“So?”

“I’ll introduce you to a sorceress I know.”

“You bastard. Is she Yennefer’s friend?”

“No.”

“Fine. I’ll go.”

Lambert entered the woods and disappeared. Geralt kept looking for Eskel for a while, but without success. He seemed to be lost in the forest. What a nice forest, Geralt thought. The sound of the leaves moved by the wind was soft and pleasant. The witcher sat down again, and laid down on the grass, closing his eyes. Eskel was doing good, he was sure of that. Probably, he just fell asleep somewhere, like he always did when he got drunk.

Damn, it was really cold.

If only Yen was there, with him. Yen, so warm, so soft. Sweet and strong, like lilac and gooseberries.

So tired. Just five minutes. Yes, Eskel could wait for a while.

Five minutes.

 

“Damn, stop laughing, Coën,” Lambert grunted, angry, “we almost died, the three of us.”

Coën dried his tears. “Sorry, I just can’t. I still have to decide which is the best part, you throwing up on Old Speartip’s foot or Eskel becoming a stew.”

Geralt was still confused about the last part.

“Eskel, how the hell did you end up in the trolls’ cauldron?” he asked.

“If you’d gotten closer the trolls’ cave, you’d have seen me. But you preferred falling asleep like a fuckin’ princess.”

“Look who’s talking about sleeping beauties,” Geralt said, irritated. “Didn’t Lambert see you?”

“No. I went down on the other side.”

“Wait,” Eskel said, looking at Lambert, “did you call for Vesemir and Coën?”

“No,” said Coën, “we were worried and left by ourselves.”

“So, Lambert…”

“He fell asleep in his boat,” Vesemir said, “with a bottle of vodka by his side.”

“Clearly he needed some _energy_ to come to us,” said Coën, laughing.

“Fuck you,” Lambert grunted.

Vesemir got up, suddenly.

“Enough of this chat. You’re all grounded. Now get dressed and get to work.”

“What?” the three witchers answered.

“You’ve heard me well. I will lock you up in your rooms every night until morning, for all the week. You won't go out of Kaer Morhen or accept witcher contracts. You will stay in the keep and clean it from top to bottom, and take care of horses and meals. I forbid you to ask for help to me or Coën, because we need to rest. You have no idea how hard it is to convince a troll to give up a prize that he deserved.”

He was going away, but he turned back and glared at them.

“And no alcohol without my permission.”

Then he left. The three witchers were silent. Coën got up after a while.

“Sounds like a fun week,” he said, smiling. He left without adding a word.

No. Not fun. That week was going to be the longest fucking week of their lives.


End file.
